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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30115803">Auf Achse</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/armatopian/pseuds/armatopian'>armatopian</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Filth (2013)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bruce Robertson is not okay, Crossdressing, F/M, Gender Issues, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Threats of Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 01:07:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,233</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30115803</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/armatopian/pseuds/armatopian</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce Robertson’s scharade of the tough Scottish cop has been blown to bits. His encounter with Ghostie Gorman’s gang has left both his face, reputation and overall mental health in a sorry state. </p><p>Instead of seeking help, he reverts back into the only coping habit he just cannot shake: Carole Robertson.<br/>Done up accordingly, a disturbed “Carole” hits the streets again... for better or for worse, this time.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bruce Robertson &amp; Ray Lennox, Bruce Robertson/Carole Robertson, Gorman/Bruce Robertson (Filth)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Auf Achse</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>You see her, you can't touch her</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You hear her, you can't hold her</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You want her, you can't have her</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You want to... but she won't let you</em>
</p><p>(“Auf Achse”- Franz Ferdinand)</p><p> </p><p>***<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <strong>I've taken something strong this time. I must have, as the dizziness in my head and the sharp, uncomfortable prickling sensation in my nose leave no room for many other possibilities.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>I've been going out often lately, without Bruce. I've done myself up just for myself, as he isn't in the mood for partying. He hasn't been himself those last few days, since he came home from the hospital. A changed man.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Outwardly, of course, he's healing. His injuries are limited to some broken bones, some scratches, nothing too serious the doctors say. He can be grateful that his injuries are minor considering he was hurt this badly on police duty.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>But I know my man, and I know he isn't grateful and I know he isn't happy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> The shadows under his eyes have darkened lately, and the flat has become a disgusting wasteland of beer cans and dirty clothes. </span></strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Inwardly, I know he's scared, he's hurting. He's been laid off from work, even though he's promised me it's only temporary. I know how much he loves his job and that he’s terrified of losing it. Work, to him, is validation, and he thinks I'm going to stop loving him if he stops being a policeman.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>But I could never stop loving him, my man, Bruce Robertson, whatever happens. We've been through so much together, we try to tell ourselves, we'll get through this alright. And so they continue, our petty troubles, our banter, our neverending on-off-games which are, as he himself proclaims so often, always being played.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="Apple-converted-space">***</span>
  <strong></strong>
  <span class="Apple-converted-space"></span><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <strong>The streets have gone dark, but the bleakness of the freezing January day has settled over the city of Edinburgh like a cold-wet claw. I'm freezing in my beautiful silk blouse and the new skirt Bruce has bought for me. He's so considerate, to think of me at this point in time. It's not been an easy ride for us, our family, and I feel he relies on me more than ever.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>My nose stings. I sniffle, lifting a hand up to my face. I feel a trickle of blood spilling out of one nostril onto my manicured fingers, the thick fluid appearing almost black in the dirty street lights. Fuck.  I don't like taking cocaine, not when I'm done up to go out like this. It reminds me of how alone I am without Bruce, how afraid I am of other men.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>I'm unsteady on my feet and I feel too disoriented to immerse myself in the suffocating atmosphere of an Edinburgh pub or a night club now, so I content myself with leaning against an ugly brick wall behind a pub where I'm almost certain that nobody will see me. A flickering street light tries its best to illuminate the alleyway, and even though its yellowish light threatens to go out any second now, it's too bright on my eyes. The air stinks of urine, vomit, and the pungent stench of something rotten. Involuntarily, I cringe, my mind conjuring up the image of a black, viscous stream of blood pooling over the asphalt under my feet. I don't dare look at the darkness behind me for fear of catching a glimpse of a familiar body, a twitching limb, a last, desperate whimper. </strong>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Help. Police. Hospital.</strong> </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>- I'm sorry, can I help you?</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>A voice pulls me out of my thoughts, male, right behind me. I risk a glance over my shoulder to make sure he's really there, not just a coke-infused hallucination. He's young, relatively short and thin, watching me with small, curious eyes. </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>- Are you alright?</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>I don't want to talk and I'm not sure I can. My limbs feel heavy. Usually, on nights like this, I avoid talking to anybody on the street. They can look, of course, that I want them to do. Talking makes me feel insecure.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>He grabs my shoulders with firm hands, spins me around, and pulls me into the light. Our eyes meet and as he looks back at me, scans me with his gaze, a gasp escapes his lips. I think I might have seen him before, his small, mouse-like features and his dirty blond hair. In the light of the street lantern, he's very pale. His mouth slowly drops open and he whispers something, more to himself than to me.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>- For fuck's sake. Bruce.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>I lean against the dirty brick wall and my world wobbles and twists around me. What did that man just say? I've lost my grasp on reality and the only thing I can hold onto is my handbag, the expensive one Bruce gave me for Christmas. I wonder whether I'm about to get mugged, trying to imagine this strange man's thin lips warped in a lecherous grin and I can't help but shudder. I know how it is. Men like him are rapists. Men like him want women like me. I take a shuddering breath. It’s cold. So cold. </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>He's still looking me up and down, seizing me up. Does he want to touch me? Rape me? Talk to me? I don't want to talk. I can't talk.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>I feel discomfort under his gaze, and suddenly panicking, my first reaction is an attempt to stagger away.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Don't. Touch. My body.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>My high heels scrape against the dirty asphalt with an ugly noise and I almost fall and scrape the knuckles on my right hand against the wall. A glance at my hand tells me that they've started to bleed, but I don't feel the pain. It's as if I'm on autopilot.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Home, home is where I want to go. Home is Bruce. Home is safe.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>- Whoa there mate! Easy. Easy. A hand reaches out to steady me as the man pulls me back, up against his chest. He smells of cold cigarettes and aftershave, like a real man. It makes us sick. He's wearing a uniform, like the one my Bruce always wears. The fabric covering his chest is soft and firm and I let my hands roam over it, slowly, painted nails scraping against the starched material. He lets this happen. </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>The uniform has been cleaned quite recently, and very carefully so. I should know since it's me who makes sure that my husband always looks his best. It's a simple routine: Drop Stacey off at the school, drop the uniform off at the dry cleaner's. Simple routine, it's what Bruce needs from me, and I'd do anything for my Bruce. </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>But no, this isn't Bruce. Where is my man?</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>- This is Ray Lennox. Do you know who I am?</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>I perceive the man only through a haze, a fog that threatens to blind and deafen me at the same time, and still, I understand the words coming at me. I've heard this name before. Of course I have. In my memory, I see them standing next to each other, Bruce and him. Lennox. Bruce's friend. The one with the funny beard.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>- You're a policeman. You're my husband's friend from work, I say.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Lennox ignores my comment, or perhaps I haven't said it out loud at all. I'm unsure. My mouth feels like somebody has taped it shut. I don't want to talk.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>He casts a nervous glance around.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>- Listen, Bruce, he says, turning back to meet my eyes again. - We need to get you off the street. I don't know what this is and I'm not gonna judge you, but I need to know how much you've taken. His voice is so urgent that I almost listen. A good policeman. A braw man, Lennox, really.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>-Bruce, ah repeat slowly, and my voice sounds foreign in my mouth. Different than I'm used to, deeper. I'm not entirely sure who I'm even talking to. Bruce? Carole?  Robertson's my name. Detective... Sergeant... Bruce? </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>There's a nagging feeling in our gut that we've been ignoring for the sake of him. My husband, once so loving, so sensible- smashed up, banged up, used up.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>We know there's something wrong with him. We used to have fun, the both of us, we really did and it's time we admitted to ourselves what we can't ignore any longer.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>How much has happened, how deeply and irreversibly he's been destroyed.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>By his family? By me? By himself? I don't know. It's been too long for us to remember.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>- Bruce hates us, I whisper, and for what seems to be the first time, I realize how afraid I truly am. How vulnerable. My man has left me, left me here again, alone in the streets, and I'm so unstable without him. I feel my eyes, my beautiful, big blue eyes that Bruce loves so much, fill with tears.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Unsure, my gaze flickers back to the man standing in front of me, this young policeman who isn't my man, and my hands involuntarily tightens around my handbag, my painted nails digging into the leather hard enough to damage it.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>-He says he needs us but I know the truth, I choke, tears threatening to ruin all the beautiful make up I've put on tonight, the makeup I put on for nobody else but him.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>My mind wanders to that rope he's bought, two days ago in a dirty department store full of sweaty DIY-ers and wife beaters and child molesters and men that make me feel unsafe. I saw him in front of the mirror, with the rope slung around his neck, just to test out whether it would work. He doesn't talk to me about it, but I know my man. I know what he's planning.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>- I think he wants us dead, Lennox, I whisper into the policeman's shoulder, clinging to his chest. I'm suddenly scared, so scared. -He wants us dead, he's going to kill us. He's already got the rope at home.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>I can't see Lennox's face, but his shoulders stiffen at my words.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>- Alright, you need to calm down. C'mon, it's alright.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>His hand is on my shoulder, his other hand reaching out to mine.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>- Give that here.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p><strong>It takes me a second to realize that he's grabbed the handbag, tries to loosen my desperate grip</strong> <strong>around its leather handle and I want to scream at him to give it back, give it here, it's ours,</strong> my wife's, it belongs tae Carole, for fuck's sake. This bag isnae mine. It's Carole's. Why can naebody see that ah dinnae want them tae touch the things that belong tae my fuckin wife!</p><p>Suddenly, the panic that's been eating away at us like a fuckin parasite in our guts ebbs away, only tae be replaced by pure, white-hot anger. How kin Ray, that coke-riddled, spunk-heided bastard, that cunt whae I once gave the honour ay calling him friend dare tae touch Carole's bag? And who am I tae just let him violate my wife's property like that? Naw, ah'm no going tae let this slide. No me. No DS Bruce Robertson.</p><p>- Gies the fuckin bag, Ray, ah find myself snarling. If he's surprised by our sudden mood swing, he does a fuckin stellar job ay no showin it. He's standing too close tae me, his hand still oan ma shoulder as if tae steady me. <em>Don't stand so close to me</em>, ah hear the lyrics reverberating in ma head, adding tae the vertigo that seems tae drill itself into ma filthy skull like a claw hammer. The polis. Classic.</p><p>Ah push at his chest wi all the force ah can muster. Fuckin spastic cunt, thinkin he kin grab at us like that. The push sends him stumbling back and for a moment ah think he's gaunna lose his balance and topple over. Success! Ah feel triumph surge through ma blood but since ah've got nothing tae hold ontae anymair ah'm unsteady in those goddamned heels again. Ah look myself down, making sense of what ah'm wearing for the first time.</p><p>Right, the heels. The skirt, too short tae cover my knees. The fuckin wig.</p><p>Ah'm all dolled up, like a fuckin poof, worse even than Inglis, the HIV-infested cunt; this time, with no undercover-excuse up ma sleeve. Same rules apply, eh?</p><p>Ray willnae let oaf, and ah kin see genuine worry in his eyes. Fuckin rat. Fuckin spastic. Ah dinnae need worry. When has Bruce fuckin Robertson, the man ay the day, ever needed worry?</p><p>Since the day ay the Gorman incident, ah dinnae need anything, except for maybe a fuckin monstrous load ay coke and a foolproof suicide plan. Ah think ay the rope at home, stored away safely like a loooooooong worm in a dirty polisman's warm gut and suddenly ah crave it, crave its deadly embrace more than anything.</p><p> </p><p>- Are you hurt?, Ray asks wi a pseudo-therapist, stern look on his face. For fuck's sake, first Drummond an now him.</p><p>Ah want tae laugh, but the noise that escapes ma throat sounds mair like a wrenched cough. Me? Ah certainly am no hurt.</p><p>Bruce Robertson doesnae get hurt, Bruce Robertson hurts. Hurts whomever he's around, really. Hurts Chrissie and Shirley and Lennox and Inglis and Bladesey and Bunty and Stacey- and Carole.</p><p>God, Carole.</p><p>
  <em>How did it make you feel?</em>
</p><p>Bad enough tae want tae forget it all. Bad enough tae try and not give a toss. Bad enough tae numb it all, numb it with-</p><p>- Cocaine, ah croak hearing ma own voice from far, far away. There are tear tracks on my face. I think that Carole must have been crying.</p><p>- It's no me, but, Ray. It’s the worms, I try tae tell um but ma body is gripped by a violent fit of shaking and ma teeth clatter against each other so hard that ah fear they might crumble and fall out. It sends me swaying into Lennox again, and without a word, he steadies me.</p><p>-The fucking- the fucking worms, ah say. - Ah've tried tae ignore them, the voices, ken.</p><p>Ray winces, obviously feeling guilty for supplying me wi enough charlie tae be in this sorry state. Probably thinks he ruined me wi his dirty drug-dealing endeavors.</p><p>Little does the cunt know, little does he know. There's something about the way he stares us down that makes us angry, wi this expression oan his face, like he knows me, like our short-timed, so-called friendship was ever more than work business.</p><p>- Bruce, you need help, he says softly. - A psychiatrist.</p><p>- Fuck off wi that shite, aw I need's done for, ah bark back. Psychiatrist ma disease-riddled arse. Everybody knows that therapy is for psycho cunts or bored wifies whae haven't been shagged right fir years, certainly no for the average heterosexual male individual that is me, Bruce Almighty Robertson. Ah might have a drug issue or two, aye. But what respectable Scotsman hasnae?</p><p>Speakin ay respectable Scotsmen, ah wonder whether Ray's still oan duty. He's sober.</p><p>- At least let me drive you home, he offers, making me wonder what ah've done tae deserve the lot ay fuckin jakey cunts tryin tae follow me around wherever ah go.</p><p>Ah want tae protest, want him te leave me here in the street tae do whatever, get run over by some cunt in a car maybe, but ah can't muster the strength tae inform him of that. So ah just let him support me in Carole's awkward high heels which, for some reason, ah cannae bear tae take oaf. A stab ay pain surges through my heart as ah mind of the confident, sexy way she used tae wear them. Ah've already lost so much ay her. <em>And how did that make you feel?</em></p><p>- Thought you wis oan duty, ah remark drily. </p><p>- Aye. They'll manage without me, he says shortly.</p><p>- Awright.</p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>The car’s parked near, and Ray quickly turns off the polis radio. As soon as he’s managed to stuff my unresponsive body into the passenger seat of his car, ah’m staring out ay the window as tae no have tae say any mair, keeping the oncoming surge ay vomit that is threatening tae ruin the entire passenger seat safely stored in the nether region of my throat and trying come to terms wi everything that's happened.</p><p>Lennox has no made any further comment oan the skirt, or the wig and ah'm unsure whether ah'm supposed tae be grateful for that. Then again, why should ah care? Why should he? He's goat it all. The job, the charlie, the promotion. Ah can fully well see that Lennox looks good behind the wheel, the fuckin ideal leader right there. Better man for the job than ah ever was, without a doubt. Congrats to the graduation fae passenger seat jakey tae the fuckin driver's seat, Detective Inspector Ray Lennox. Well done. Well fucking done.</p><p>Ah imagine how as soon as he's fucked oaf intae the night, we're gaunnae get tae work. The chair's gaun tae have tae be dragged in the middle of the room where we've cared tae install a hook in the ceiling. Ah kin almost feel the rope already, heavy in our arms like the long, fat tapeworm that's been feeding off us from inside our gut, and ah'm gripped by something resembling joyful anticipation. It's a solid rope, Carole's damn well right. Fuckin ideal for our purposes.</p><p>It almost makes us smile tae ourselves. As soon as the door's slammed shut behind us, ah’ll strip out ay Carole's clathes. The skirt, the blouse, the shoes, the bra, everything, and I’ll discard it right at the door, leaving it in a wrinkled, dirty pile. I willnae be needing it any longer after all, just as ah won't be needing her. Carole.</p><p>Traitorous cow, tried tae ruin it all by throwing herself at the next available shag's chest, goan on about me wanting tae end it. Ah shouldae known better, really, shouldn't have let her out the night.</p><p>Lucky that oor dear Detective Inspector is such a fuckin self-centered spastic.</p><p>We'll be almost oan autopilot by the time we make our way to the cupboard that holds our most prized possession. We’ll take the rope, lift it up tae our eyes tae inspect its material, its rough texture that we're sure will leave deep cuts in our skin.</p><p>Castin a glance at dear Ray Lennox in the driver’s seat, the pinnacle of the successful male n aw, reeking ay aftershave seemingly delivered straight from the drugstore for pretentious cunts, ah cannae help but think, phoa, this is what it's gaunnae be then. The great ending, the breathtaking climax we've endured a life's worth ay pain and sufferin for. The next fresh-faced cunt up for promotion as if Bruce Robertson had never been thair at all. </p><p>Soon, ah promise myself, still unsteady in the passenger seat, soon I’ll make it aw go away. Give Cunty Baws Lennox and that whore Carole something to think about. The real Carole, this time, or maybe not. We’ve been laying words in her mouth for so long that ah can’t tell what she’d really say anymair.</p><p>The lines blur between Bruce and Carole as my parasite slithers and curls inside my repulsing body so that I almost hear it nagging, <em>well Bruce, my mate, my respectable friend: which one of those two will you really take out tonight? </em></p>
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